85
Kink
Super Junior (KiTeuk)
1,483 words. R. Second person. So, k0uryuu told me to write skirt!fic. This is what happened.
It swishes when he walks.
The slick material slides across his thighs and over his knees, red and burnished, like taffeta. It’s the sound that you can’t get over, that soft swish of it over his skin, the crinkle of the fabric rubbing together, and he seems to not notice at all.
You’re eating cereal in the kitchen, crouched over the bowl in your sweatpants and tank top, and you almost don’t look up when he walks in, but there’s a soft sound, something unfamiliar.
He’s stretching when you glance at him, arms over his head as he reaches back, faded grey t-shirt sliding up over his belly, exposing a flash of white skin, and the waistband - the waistband of his skirt.
“’Morning, Eeteuk,” he says, that smile of his wide and sharp.
“K-kibum,” you start, know your eyes are wide, but you can’t help it. He walks to the fridge, opens it, and you listen to the sound of him moving.
“We have any orange juice?” he asks, turning to look at you over his shoulder, eyebrows raised.
“Uh,” you say, and you want to slide your hands under the hem of his skirt, push it up until it bunches at his waist, leaving him open, exposed, and you want to touch him.
“Eeteuk?” he asks, and he straightens, turns, and the skirt swishes, and you swear you shiver.
“Um. I think that Donghae drank the last of it,” you say, and your voice comes out shivery and breathy. He gives you a look that’s half smile and half something else, but you have to hold your hands in your lap just to keep from rubbing them over that fabric, red and slightly iridescent.
“Oh. Okay then,” Kibum turns back to the fridge, and you stare at your cereal, soggy and unappetizing now. You push it away and stand, wanting to shove Kibum to the floor and wanting to run away. “Eeteuk,” Kibum says, and his voice says stop, and so you do, one hand on the door frame. He’s looking at you when you turn around, his hands bunched in the fabric of his skirt, crinkling it. Your heart picks up, kick started, an electric jolt, and his eyes are wide. He’s not smiling. He’s biting his lip, fingers clutched at the skirt, and you can see a glimpse of white thigh.
“Kibum?” you ask, and your voice is so quiet and so even that you wonder if he can hear it.
“Come here,” he says to you. You push away from the doorway, stumble closer, and you cover his hands with your own, fingers pressing between his and into the fabric. It’s rough against your fingertips, and you can feel the hard press of his thighs, coated in red, and it rustles as you push. “Mmm,” Kibum says, and his eyes slide closed, his head falls back, lolling on his shoulders. You stare at your fingers and his and the skirt, and you lick at his neck.
“Kibum,” you say against his skin, “up. Onto the counter. C’mon,” and he moans, just a little, and nods, rolling his head to look at you, and you slide your hands around his hips.
He’s lighter than you think, lighter than he should be when you lift him up, but he spreads his thighs, wraps his calves around your waist and his arms around your neck. Your fingers never leave him, rubbing restlessly over fabric-covered skin, and he moans before he even kisses you, moans with his lips just touching yours, not moving.
You push at the skirt, love the sound of it as it slithers up his thighs, and you lick at his mouth, run your fingers over his skin. He pulls you closer with the strength of his legs, fingers pushing at your shirt, carding through your hair like he can’t decide where to touch first, like he wants to be everywhere at once, and you want him. You gasp and you press against him and you bite his lips.
“I want you,” you say. You kiss him, mouths a messy slipslide of skin and saliva, and your fingers are bunched in his skirt, twisted and lost and you don’t think you could ever pull away, even if you wanted to, but you don’t, you don’t ever.
“I know, I know,” Kibum says, pulling away just long enough to breathe out the words. “Oh god, yeah, I know.”
You love kissing; you love it uncoordinated, all teeth and tongue and sliding mouths, suction. Kibum bites into the corner of your mouth, slides along your jaw, licks his way up the side of your neck, sucks on your earlobe. You shiver, and you wonder how much longer your knees will hold, and you whimper in the back of your throat, the sounds caught behind your teeth.
Kibum’s heels dig into the small of your back, holding you tight against him, and you push your fingers under the hem of his shirt, up over his stomach and his chest, bunching it under his armpits. You wonder what he would look like if you stepped back now, debauched and sullied, his skirt just barely covering the top of his thighs, his t-shirt pushed up to expose his chest and belly. His red lips and his wicked smile, wide and relaxed and sexual. You pull off his shirt, throw it over your shoulder, and you’re pretty sure that you’re having sex on the kitchen counter, but you don’t care. You spread the fingers of one hand over his chest, sliding down to curve around the flat skin of his belly, and Kibum bites into the joining where your neck meets shoulder, licking and sucking and marking.
He pulls away with a smile, licks his lips, wraps his fingers around the hem of your shirt, and pulls it up. You don’t resist as you let him get it over your head, where it joins his on the floor. His fingers slide down your back, hook under your shoulder blades, press down your spine, and you shudder, groan, fist your hands in the fabric of his skirt, and bury your face in his neck. He slides his hands down your back, just under the waistband of your sweatpants, and you gasp.
“Kibum,” you start, “Kibum, I can’t, your skirt.” And he rolls his hips up against yours, body sinuous and sensual.
“Yeah,” he says. Then he breathes in, sudden and sharp, and you hear the grin in his voice as his speaks. “You’re not wearing underwear,” is what he says, voice shocked and full of pleasure, kisses you, wet and sloppy as you run your fingertips up the inside of his thighs. He’s legs pull up tight around you, his hand still venturing just past the waistband of your sweats.
“And you are?” you gasp out, fingers pushing up under the skirt, to the soft joint of the hip and thigh and trailing there, listening to Kibum whimper and push his hips up toward you. Your voice is still breathy, but the sounds Kibum is making, high whines and gasps for breath, are just as thin, and you want more of them. You shiver, tongue along his jaw, feel his pulse rush under your mouth, fast as a frightened rabbit.
“N-no,” he says, stuttering slightly as you slide your fingers over his hips, skirt pooling over your wrists and forearms. His eyes slide half closed, and his skin is silky smooth under your fingers. “S-skirt, remember? No underwear with the skirt. I d-don’t own panties.” He pulls you against him by the small of your back, rolling his hips against yours, and you both moan.
“Easier that way,” you say, brain stuttering over the image, more than half pleasurable, before you kiss him again. He pushes your sweatpants low, fingers still latched onto you, and you grasp him by his hips and pull him forward, the fabric of the skirt still pooled between you.
It doesn’t take long. He moves against you, hips sliding over the cold marble of the counter, and you listen to him breathe and whimper and moan. You watch his eyelids flutter, and you bite his neck, and you’re not quiet yourself, you can’t stop saying his name. You come with the fabric still clenched between your fingers, close to shouting, and you feel him pulse against you, head thrown back, almost hitting the cabinets behind him. He breathes, his chest pushing against yours with every exhale, and you bury your face in the crook of his neck, smelling his sweat and his skin.
“God,” he says, eyes sliding closed.
“Your skirt is ruined,” you say, untangling your hands from the soiled fabric.
“It’s okay,” he says, fingers dipping into the sweat collecting along your spine, lips just out of reach of your own, “I wasn’t planning on wearing it for long, anyway.”
Super Junior (KiTeuk)
1,483 words. R. Second person. So, k0uryuu told me to write skirt!fic. This is what happened.
It swishes when he walks.
The slick material slides across his thighs and over his knees, red and burnished, like taffeta. It’s the sound that you can’t get over, that soft swish of it over his skin, the crinkle of the fabric rubbing together, and he seems to not notice at all.
You’re eating cereal in the kitchen, crouched over the bowl in your sweatpants and tank top, and you almost don’t look up when he walks in, but there’s a soft sound, something unfamiliar.
He’s stretching when you glance at him, arms over his head as he reaches back, faded grey t-shirt sliding up over his belly, exposing a flash of white skin, and the waistband - the waistband of his skirt.
“’Morning, Eeteuk,” he says, that smile of his wide and sharp.
“K-kibum,” you start, know your eyes are wide, but you can’t help it. He walks to the fridge, opens it, and you listen to the sound of him moving.
“We have any orange juice?” he asks, turning to look at you over his shoulder, eyebrows raised.
“Uh,” you say, and you want to slide your hands under the hem of his skirt, push it up until it bunches at his waist, leaving him open, exposed, and you want to touch him.
“Eeteuk?” he asks, and he straightens, turns, and the skirt swishes, and you swear you shiver.
“Um. I think that Donghae drank the last of it,” you say, and your voice comes out shivery and breathy. He gives you a look that’s half smile and half something else, but you have to hold your hands in your lap just to keep from rubbing them over that fabric, red and slightly iridescent.
“Oh. Okay then,” Kibum turns back to the fridge, and you stare at your cereal, soggy and unappetizing now. You push it away and stand, wanting to shove Kibum to the floor and wanting to run away. “Eeteuk,” Kibum says, and his voice says stop, and so you do, one hand on the door frame. He’s looking at you when you turn around, his hands bunched in the fabric of his skirt, crinkling it. Your heart picks up, kick started, an electric jolt, and his eyes are wide. He’s not smiling. He’s biting his lip, fingers clutched at the skirt, and you can see a glimpse of white thigh.
“Kibum?” you ask, and your voice is so quiet and so even that you wonder if he can hear it.
“Come here,” he says to you. You push away from the doorway, stumble closer, and you cover his hands with your own, fingers pressing between his and into the fabric. It’s rough against your fingertips, and you can feel the hard press of his thighs, coated in red, and it rustles as you push. “Mmm,” Kibum says, and his eyes slide closed, his head falls back, lolling on his shoulders. You stare at your fingers and his and the skirt, and you lick at his neck.
“Kibum,” you say against his skin, “up. Onto the counter. C’mon,” and he moans, just a little, and nods, rolling his head to look at you, and you slide your hands around his hips.
He’s lighter than you think, lighter than he should be when you lift him up, but he spreads his thighs, wraps his calves around your waist and his arms around your neck. Your fingers never leave him, rubbing restlessly over fabric-covered skin, and he moans before he even kisses you, moans with his lips just touching yours, not moving.
You push at the skirt, love the sound of it as it slithers up his thighs, and you lick at his mouth, run your fingers over his skin. He pulls you closer with the strength of his legs, fingers pushing at your shirt, carding through your hair like he can’t decide where to touch first, like he wants to be everywhere at once, and you want him. You gasp and you press against him and you bite his lips.
“I want you,” you say. You kiss him, mouths a messy slipslide of skin and saliva, and your fingers are bunched in his skirt, twisted and lost and you don’t think you could ever pull away, even if you wanted to, but you don’t, you don’t ever.
“I know, I know,” Kibum says, pulling away just long enough to breathe out the words. “Oh god, yeah, I know.”
You love kissing; you love it uncoordinated, all teeth and tongue and sliding mouths, suction. Kibum bites into the corner of your mouth, slides along your jaw, licks his way up the side of your neck, sucks on your earlobe. You shiver, and you wonder how much longer your knees will hold, and you whimper in the back of your throat, the sounds caught behind your teeth.
Kibum’s heels dig into the small of your back, holding you tight against him, and you push your fingers under the hem of his shirt, up over his stomach and his chest, bunching it under his armpits. You wonder what he would look like if you stepped back now, debauched and sullied, his skirt just barely covering the top of his thighs, his t-shirt pushed up to expose his chest and belly. His red lips and his wicked smile, wide and relaxed and sexual. You pull off his shirt, throw it over your shoulder, and you’re pretty sure that you’re having sex on the kitchen counter, but you don’t care. You spread the fingers of one hand over his chest, sliding down to curve around the flat skin of his belly, and Kibum bites into the joining where your neck meets shoulder, licking and sucking and marking.
He pulls away with a smile, licks his lips, wraps his fingers around the hem of your shirt, and pulls it up. You don’t resist as you let him get it over your head, where it joins his on the floor. His fingers slide down your back, hook under your shoulder blades, press down your spine, and you shudder, groan, fist your hands in the fabric of his skirt, and bury your face in his neck. He slides his hands down your back, just under the waistband of your sweatpants, and you gasp.
“Kibum,” you start, “Kibum, I can’t, your skirt.” And he rolls his hips up against yours, body sinuous and sensual.
“Yeah,” he says. Then he breathes in, sudden and sharp, and you hear the grin in his voice as his speaks. “You’re not wearing underwear,” is what he says, voice shocked and full of pleasure, kisses you, wet and sloppy as you run your fingertips up the inside of his thighs. He’s legs pull up tight around you, his hand still venturing just past the waistband of your sweats.
“And you are?” you gasp out, fingers pushing up under the skirt, to the soft joint of the hip and thigh and trailing there, listening to Kibum whimper and push his hips up toward you. Your voice is still breathy, but the sounds Kibum is making, high whines and gasps for breath, are just as thin, and you want more of them. You shiver, tongue along his jaw, feel his pulse rush under your mouth, fast as a frightened rabbit.
“N-no,” he says, stuttering slightly as you slide your fingers over his hips, skirt pooling over your wrists and forearms. His eyes slide half closed, and his skin is silky smooth under your fingers. “S-skirt, remember? No underwear with the skirt. I d-don’t own panties.” He pulls you against him by the small of your back, rolling his hips against yours, and you both moan.
“Easier that way,” you say, brain stuttering over the image, more than half pleasurable, before you kiss him again. He pushes your sweatpants low, fingers still latched onto you, and you grasp him by his hips and pull him forward, the fabric of the skirt still pooled between you.
It doesn’t take long. He moves against you, hips sliding over the cold marble of the counter, and you listen to him breathe and whimper and moan. You watch his eyelids flutter, and you bite his neck, and you’re not quiet yourself, you can’t stop saying his name. You come with the fabric still clenched between your fingers, close to shouting, and you feel him pulse against you, head thrown back, almost hitting the cabinets behind him. He breathes, his chest pushing against yours with every exhale, and you bury your face in the crook of his neck, smelling his sweat and his skin.
“God,” he says, eyes sliding closed.
“Your skirt is ruined,” you say, untangling your hands from the soiled fabric.
“It’s okay,” he says, fingers dipping into the sweat collecting along your spine, lips just out of reach of your own, “I wasn’t planning on wearing it for long, anyway.”